I could feel my face burn with flush as I looked up, my boss still talking. The others who sat around the table were giving me the side eye, aware — and amused — that I was totally busted.

I wasn’t listening to the bossman. But it was important.

I was on the facepage.

Dealing with a bully.

Womp womp.

There’s this mean girl who won’t leave me alone. Yes. Mean Girl. Like the movie. The one with Regina George.

Only this mean girl isn’t a teenager in a fictional film. She’s a grown ass woman. A REAL one. I’ve been around her forever but frankly didn’t notice how awful she was. But here she is, once again, terrorizing me on that stupid facepage.

Her name?

Narcissism.

And holy hell is she kind of a bitch.

I don’t know when this actually happened, but it’s been happening for a while now, and it’s especially noticeable on social media. She is snarky and blunt. She cuts people off (as much as you can do in type). She has favorites and rolls her eyes at other people’s posts. She screen grabs them so she can show them and sneer about it with others. She is ALWAYS RIGHT. Don’t even try to argue, she’s in your face with her rightness and her-let-me-prove-its.

And she’s not letting up.

I’ll give her this though…

She. Is. Adorable.

I have officially entered the most ridiculous phase of my adult life. At 41, I find myself glued to my smart phone. Clicking on apps, counting up likes, posting nonsense, pissing people off.

And I don’t know what the hell is going on.

We spend all this time giving aggressive eyerolls to the youth of world. Those Millenials. They’re so full of themselves. They think it’s important to post photos of every scone they eat, every outfit they wear, and god forbid they don’t announce when they go to the gym. We get it. You do pilates.

But the fact is, if they are full of themselves, its only because someone else is feeding it. And that someone is pretty much the rest of us. For as Gen X as still am (hello, I have THREE butterflies tattooed on me!), I’m as self absorbed as anyone else.

It’s not a bad thing, to be self absorbed. To a point. I mean, sure, there are a handful of truly selfless folks in the world. But pretty much zero of them are on the facepage. It’s quite literally your own internet page with your name on the top and every word typed is about your thoughts and your feels and your needs and your hilarious whatevers.

I found myself recently counting likes.

And then?

Then I was comparing them.

“I have more likes than her, and she’s kind of a beast, so I am totally winning.”

“More people looked at my post than his post, score.”

“I’ll just type this” *clackity clackity clack* “And…… boom, send.”

Did I mention how old I am?

Yes. I’m 41 years old. FORTY-ONE.

Which is how many more likes I got than that jerk, zing!

I kid.

Kind of.

I’m older than Joan of Arc and the Virgin Mary COMBINED, and I’m counting my likes. And getting annoyed at people for not liking me more, or faster, or better, or in a more vocal way. I can only assume that the people who don’t fall all over themselves over my words are all…

Because they certainly are talking about me behind my back. There is no other explanation. They can’t stop talking about me. That’s why they aren’t talking about me.

Wait. What…

Seriously.

I’ve become such a narcissist about my social media, I’ve literally gotten in ACTUAL fights about it. Because people are talking. And they might be talking about me. They probably are. I need to go check.

While my boss — a real and actual person who gives me money — is ACTUALLY talking to me.

And then finally make it back home, where I sit at home and obsess over it more.

Not the assignment my boss just handed me. No no. I obsess over the likes.

This is officially the dumbest I have ever been in my entire life. Most of the people who I interact with in this way? I don’t really even know them. I think I do. But I don’t. And since there’s enough narcissism to go around, I think it’s only fair to say, they are pretty much in the same boat.

I took the facepage app off my phone. I had to. I can’t stop clicking it. And reading. And deciding what’s about me even when it makes no sense that it could be, but I’ve turned into someone so self absorbed I think that EVERY COMMENT IS HIDING AN AGENDA.

And who am I ignoring in the mean time?

The ones who do know me. The ones who are talking about me. The ones who talk to me. The ones who I want to talk about more than anything else in the world.

I can’t break up with the facepage. I love her too much.

But I have GOT to rid myself of this narcissist. She’s such a nasty bully.

Take that, narcissist. I’m done with you.

*end note — Writing a long blog post all about myself saying that I am done making everything all about me… now that’s just comedy.

Every 20-something has the same thing happen to them. A moment in time (and that moment may last an extended period) when they are just. so. stupid. And in this moment of idiocy, they mutter things like “I’ll never…” They’re having some sort of lame quasi-protest of things they’ll never do. They don’t actually have a reason for finding it unacceptable, yet they lack the skills to just say, “meh, I don’t like that.”

So rather than just not comment on something they dislike, or comment that it’s not their thing, they proclaim!! that they will NEVER….

Case in point:

Oh my god I will NEVER drive a minivan!!

That was pretty much the mantra of my generation. Lord help you if you did anything as horrifying as get behind the wheel of one of these. For god’s sake, why not just un-pop your collar or wear *gasp* bootcut jeans.

Well, sooner or later, you realize, as horrifying as it is, you are that age — you gotta have the minivan. And even if you never ACTUALLY drive one, you’re more like, meh. I’m sure there are things far worse, far more embarrassing. OTHER things that I would NEVER do.

Well, ladies, you’re doing it.

And it’s this:

OH MY GOD Y’ALL!

It’s *WINE* time!!!

There’s this whole Pinterest “movement” I’ll call it, and it’s all about the love of WINE! They have JOKES!

Get it? Ha ha!! You know that you can BUY that? Someone will print that out for you and send it to you. But you have to pay for it. And that person is probably a genius, because she knows that people are so drunk on wine that they’ll buy ANYTHING.

It’s the thing that the cool kids are looking at and thinking, oh my god, HOW DO I AVOID THAT?

I. Will. Never…

Not all of them. Sure, some of them are perfectly capable of appreciating a decent glass of wine. Just like some folks were perfectly capable of not giving a damn what they were driving, as long as it went.

But for the most part, dudes. You’re like, MAKING SOME SERIOUS LOVE to your wine. It’s pornographic. You’re all “ooooohhhhhhhh wine” because you don’t seem to know that it’s a drink. It can’t hear you. It’s old fruit, fruit that got so old, it went all stinky, and then someone was like “ah cool I’ll squeeze it into a bottle, some fool will drink it” and YOU ARE THE FOOL.

There was a time when you were like “how can I avoid being the weirdo that my mother is” and now you ARE. Maybe her vice wasn’t wine. Maybe it was Gloria Vanderbilt jeans or Dr. Scholl’s flip flops or Canfield’s Diet Chocolate Soda. But it was weird and changed her and you SWORE but LOOK. Look at you dude. LOOK.

And all the regular wine drinkers are like, ah man, suburban moms are KILLING MY WINE!

I mean, for the love.

Not only are you drinking what I can only assume are pound and pounds of old grapes in a single sitting, then you justify it by PLAYING WITH THE GARBAGE:

It’s not just that these are do-it-yourself wine garbage crafts, but there are TEN of them.

Including stuff like this:

Forever is today?

What?

That doesn’t even make SENSE. And how many CORKS is that? One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, holy shit I cannot possibly keep counting because NOW I’M SAD.

And those 10 DIY Wine Garbage Projects are one of the SMALLER suggestions on these here internets for what to do with your used corks.

I mean:

That’s FURNITURE.

Furniture made with WINE CORKS. And it is one of THIRTY suggestions on this particular drunkenenabling crafting page.

Not to worry, though. You can make furniture out of your beer bottles too.

But it’s not really presented in quite the crafty quaint fun loving Pinteresty way. If you’re a beer drinker, the suggestions are more along the lines of:

Yes. Because nothing says “I drink too much” like shards of glass in your bum as you sit on the dock by the bay. You make a cork buffet, and you are AMAZING. But you make one of these bad boys, and your parents and siblings are suddenly holding an intervention. Maybe if you stenciled “Forever is Today” across the side it would be classier.

Seriously.

WHAT THE HELL IS THIS EVEN?

Wine is stupid. And it tastes bad. I want the wine movement to go AWAY and to take its Pinterest pages with it. And to stop giving women a bad name. We don’t all love you, wine! We don’t!!!

The lady who lived across the street and a few houses down was turning 40. FORTY! I thought, how is she not dead? She was turning 40, and her husband got up early and erected a big old sign in the front lawn.

“Good Lordy, Whats-her-name is 40!”

(I can’t remember what her first name was, I am certain he used it though, and did not call her Whats-her-name.)

I heard my Mom and the biddies some of the other upstanding adult women from the neighborhood gossiping engaging in intelligent conversation based only on facts and not conjecture about the big four-oh for Whats-her-name, and it appeared that her gift back to him for his surprise was a nice packet of divorce papers.

Forty-year-olds, I thought, are weird.

Huh.

I really wondered if I would not handle 40 well. Would I curl up in the corner denying the age process? Would I do something stupid to prove I’m still young (I mean, I am — go ask a group of Baby Boomers if they think 40 is old) like jump out of a high place with only a hand-sewn piece of rayon to keep me from splattering to earth? Would I storm into Forever 21 demanding service?

As it turns out, though, I’m not even a little bit annoyed. I’m so unbothered to be 40, the only thing bothering me is why I’m not more bothered. I think, maybe, it’s helpful to be the youngest of five. When everyone goes through it first, including one of them hitting the big FIVE-oh before you even get to FOUR-oh…

…well, then maybe you just aren’t as annoyed or scared or desperate to divorce your husband at 40 like old Mrs. Whats-her-name was.

I did wake up with a sore hip.

But rather than LAMENT the passing of time, I decided to take a look back at the last decade. Did I spend my time wisely in my 30’s? Was I properly mature and responsible while still being fun and full of awesome (I think we all know it’s a resounding YES to the awesome part, but that’s just a given). Did I properly leave my 30’s as a graduated member of the Generation X Dirty-30 Club, as well as an honored and respectable alumna of Volvo-Driving Soccer Mom University (those might actually be the same thing).

In pictures, I think, it looks like I had a good time.

Let’s take a look!

Age 30 ~ I couldn’t find any digital photos, so at a minimum, I really AM showing my age. Here I am with a sweet two-year-old Hank.

Age 31 ~ Fulfilled Mom and Dad’s dream by finding some fool to marry me and take me and my kid off their hands. They actually would have preferred if I left Hank behind, but as it turns out, he was Jim’s dowry.

Age 32 ~ I spent most of this year with a baby either in my uterus or attached to a bosom or hip.

How cute is George?

And how enormous are my jugs?

Age 33 ~ I looked sexy in yellow.

And I inappropriately sat on Jesus’ lap.

Age 34 ~ I continued the family tradition of getting your father drunk, and looking uncomfortable at the fair, and making sure to suck in when you stand next to a pregnant woman for a photo so you look extra skinny!!.

Age 35 ~ 8th Grade reunion? Yes please! It’s weird that I’m the only one in the photo proudly holding my beer, right?

And of course, we took this sweet shot with Brendan. Big dumb loveable jerk.

Age 36 ~ Kayla and I got dressed all sassy and took photos and went out boozing. It was just like the decade before, only we came home at a reasonable hour because it’s only wise to get a good night’s sleep.

Age 37 ~ The ladies of the Chick Shack visit the big cracked bell. Like you don’t want to party with us. After George graduated I made him get a job, then I relived my younger days by driving to Kansas City on a whim for a ball game with Kayla. Where we again got a decent night’s sleep so we would be refreshed for driving home the next day…

Age 38 ~ If there is one year where pictures show my endless battle with my weight, it’s age 38. First I ran and drank.

Then I took more photos with this fatty.

Then we ruled the field at unaffiliated minor league ball park.

And I mud raced!(this left quite an ass bruise)

And I turned into the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man, but at least I finally got to see Ireland!

Age 39 ~ Determined to get my body back in a shape other than round. First I ran another 13.1 miles without even being chased.

Then I held hands with the KGB.

Models became my besties for a brief moment in time.

I died.

I conquered!

So as you can see, I think I took advantage of all the things there are for a woman in her 30’s to take advantage of. I reproduced. I suckered a man into marriage fell in love. I got fat. I got less fat. I went places. I met new people. I exercised. I saw historical artifacts! I made Kayla take photos with me TWICE while pregnant so I looked skinny. I had just a few drinks.

And I managed this:

Granted, this might be more meaningful at 46 or 51, but I was excited, yo. Because Fatty Marney didn’t fit in that a year ago.

So how did 40 start?

Eating breakfast take-out while checking out my new John Denver Greatest Hits album while wearing my Mrs. Kenny readers.

A few weeks ago I went out for an 8 mile run. I was ill prepared and not thinking I was going to make it. But, turns out, I did GREAT. I wouldn’t so much call it a run, or even a jog, but maybe a trot. A jaunt, if you will. I was kicking it. Man, was I in a good mood when I got back.

Ladies and gentlemen, I am a runner. I am not a small woman. In fact, the closer I get to 40, the wider my butt gets. And my waist. And my butt. But still, this is something I do. And I ain’t lying, yo. Check me out:

My medal from my half marathon last fall.

My first Mudathlon.

My second Mudathlon.

Me rocking some underboob sweat after a 10-mile.

Me looking cute as Jim sucks in and Laura inexplicably pretends her banana is a phone.

Look, here’s me running the in the outfield after a Joliet Slammers game in a skirt!

SEE. I AM AN ATHLETE.

In a few days, I am running once again. Jim and are will be joining a group of friends to run a half marathon in Indianapolis. I won’t lie, my knee is kinda tweaked and I am afraid that I that I will slow all my friends down. But I have had a couple of really good long runs and I feel pretty good about it.

But back to that day when I finished my 8 mile run. I got home from this run right about the time that Hank was getting home from school, and I was all *high five* and *fist bump* and *slap my butt* only that part I did myself because gross, I’m not going to have my kid slap my big old butt.

When I came home, however, I checked my phone and saw a text about the Boston Marathon. “What kind of asshole bombs a marathon?” my sister wrote.

So I snapped on the TV. Sure enough, some asshole bombed the Boston Marathon.

I am not afraid to run the half marathon in Indianapolis. But honestly, I’m kind of pissed. Everyone knows that you have to work really hard to get in shape. But sometimes, even the fittest of the fit, even they can’t run.

It’s true. Running isn’t just for people who are perfectly physically fit. I think I am proof of that. I’ve got a big butt and I cannot lie. I am a good 40+ pounds overweight. But I am a runner.

It’s this sport that is about much more than your footstrike and speed. I hit a 12-minute mile and I feel like Speedy Gonzalez only less animated and racist. It’s a sport that is far more about your ability to endure than your ability to hurry it up. You don’t need to be have a specialized skill, you just need momentum and stamina.

Nobody runs for the fame of it. I mean, name a famous marathoner. I am sure they exist, but if it’s not track and field at the Olympics (and seriously, who watches the “field” portion? Javelin is ZERO fun when no one is really at risk of being impaled), then no one is watching. And even then it’s just for the chance to yell USA USA and hope that this run will get you a free Big Mac.

Runners are all a little bit like Forrest Gump. We’re not going anywhere, we just felt like running.

Who the hell bombs those people?

I mean, it’s not like there is a group of athletes out there who deserve that more. But runners only run to run. Sure, the super top guys are sponsored and what not. But for the rest of them — the ones who are finishing 26.2 at the 4-hour mark — it’s just for their spiffy medal and a technical t-shirt that rides up funny and a photo that they have to pay $30 to get a copy of. It’s just to say, hey, I ran a marathon!

Runners are pretty selfless athletes. They see a goal, and it’s really far away, and they run to it. That’s all.

I think a lot of the runners this weekend will be doing it “in memory” of the victims. But not me, not so much. I am not running to honor them as victims. I am running to honor them as runners, and families of runners, and friends of runners. I am running to honor myself as a runner, and my own friends. I am running because I can. Because I am a runner.

I’m not gonna lie, I don’t remember what it was. Something about what my hopes and dreams were as a kid? Or something? I don’t know, it was super deep and hence, not at all like Jim. Sorry honey.

My first response to him was, “have you been on Pinterest?”

He claims not to know what that is, but I don’t believe him. See, Pinterest is code for “super awesome time suck.” It’s this random site where you post links to all the things you like, or want, or need, or fancy, or wish to make, or covet, or, inexplicably, random pictures of Kid Rock. Seriously, there are Pinterest pages that people start up to honor the man who is so skeezy you need a shot of penicillin after looking at him. Gross yo. It’s just weird.

But other than that, Pinterest is super randomly fun. You know all the thoughts and ideas and stuff you really like but keep to yourself because no one cares? Yeah, now it’s public, and it’s on Pinterest.

And in the very *pinteresting* boards about relationships and relationship advice and being a better relationshipper, there is a trend lately on how to get to know your partner better. At the heart of a lot of these things is essentially a game of 20 questions. Here’s what to ask your guy (or gal, dudes can pinterest their lives too) when you are bored or in a long car ride or to strike up the conversation or just to get to know each other better.

They generally are accompanied by a photo of a super happy couple, like so:

So I started clicking away thinking, hell, that actually sounds fun. It would be nice to give Jim the third degree in a pleasant way for a change.

But the more I looked at the various items for how to get to the root of your partner’s soul so you REALLY know what they are thinking, the more disappointed I was. The questions were LAME. Examples:

What is your favorite Olympic event?

What? I don’t give a shit. Or, more importantly, if it is not curling, you are dead to me.

Would you rather be blind or deaf?

Wow. Loaded question there. One way or another I’m insulting someone. No way am I falling into that trap.

Who is your favorite superhero?

Again… what? Thor. Or you are again dead to me.

What’s your most embarrassing moment?

Well, nothing will put the pedal to the metal in the divorce bus quicker than revealing how embarrassing it was when you got busted for public nudity and that’s the real reason you can’t go back to New Orleans.

These questions are crap! Crap I tell you.

So I have developed my own. Ten questions to get to the heart of your relationship.

Sit with the one you love, or the one you hope to love, or the one you were stalking but shhhhhhhh let’s not discuss it we’re on a date now, and ask these gems.

Then you REALLY get to know someone.

1 – Why do you hate America?

This should always be first on any list.

2 – Do they sell men’s clothes where you bought that shirt?

Obvi – say “women’s” if your date is a chick. Better yet, say chick. That will win her over.

3 – How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?

If them hem and haw, leave immediately. The answers in order are Bill, Karl, Sean.

8 – Dawson or Pacey?

The answer is Dawson. It’s HIS creek.

9 – What’s your most embarrassing moment?

I changed my mind about this one, I want to know if he’s as fun as I am, or as lame as, well, I expect he is.

10 – What is the name of your make-believe band?

This is far more important than you think. Anyone who does not have a make-believe band, or for that matter who has never practiced their speech to the academy or picked out their Olympic ice skating music is lacking heart, creativity and a soul. PS, if they say the name of their band is Mentally Spanked, you are on a date with me, Kayla or Nancy.

I have no idea what was so random, I was stuck on the word “totes.” What the hell does this mean? So I decided I would use my highly trained investigative journalist mind to unravel this mystery.

I googled it.

Totes, it seems, is shortened speak for the word “totally.” As in, the English language is being totes destroyed by the totes laziness of this totes embarrassing usage of the word totes.

This desperate need to shorten and clip words blows my mind. I cannot speak for anyone else, but I didn’t spend hours at St. James diagramming sentences just so that I could LOL and WTF at them later. Incidentally, how in the hell did LOL come to use anyway? I realize it is the shortened way to say “laugh out loud,” but back in my 7th grade note-writing days, we did that by writing “ha” which is actually shorter. What genius came up with LOL? And then took it a step further to ROFLMAO. Has anyone ever rolled on the floor laughing, or laughed their ass off? Couldn’t the same effect be achieved if you simply wrote, HA HA!

Now it appears WTF has been replaced by WTAF, which adds the word “actual” in it (which also makes my friend Lara irrationally ragey — also not a word but I like that one). But it appears that WTAF is just the modern version of “huh” which is also a letter shorter. Don’t even get me started on how www is the shortened version of world wide web, but when you SAY www, you are saying six additional syllables than if you had just gone ahead and said “world wide web.”

Anyway, I felt the need to get to the bottom of this totes ridiculous phenomenon. Turns out I am saying that wrong, too. Because it is not totes ridiculous. It’s totes ridic. It’s cray-cray. Ima say it prolly so cray-cray it for realz could turn my brain to mush. Which would be the exact opposite of totes adorbs. If that happened — FML. Obvi, I’m jelly of ppl who can avoid this sitch.

(somewhere there is someone who understood all that)

This makes me sad. It makes me so sad. I wonder if this is what Shakespeare would think if we plopped him down in front of an episode of any television show ever made. WHAT THE HELL ARE THESE PEOPLE SAYING? I want to say that this is just the evolution of like, grody to the max and gag me with a spoon, but NO. Because that was fun. And also, words. Full on words. “Gag me with a spoon” is extremely descriptive, you know EXACTLY what I am saying.

Naturally (natch?) I decided this matter needed immediate attention from my husband. It took a fairly long, somewhat slow conversation in order to explain to him what is happening here, what people are saying, how to understand it. The result? The next day, Jim sent me a text in the morning. “Are you awake?” “Yes,” I replied.

“I totes knew you were.”

And it has begun.

These words that are making us crazy, we’ve now spent so much time ripping on them, they are becoming part of our daily conversations. We’re officially cray-cray on the reggae (I have no idea what that means).

Case in point — dinner. There we were, sitting at family dinner (we have family values) and Jim and I were discussing something. I can officially say I have no idea what we were talking about. But the words “totes” and “ridic” were fluid. I def don’t know what was said. It’s possible he said he had to go to the libes (that one came from a friend of mine). We spoke of our besties and Christmas prezzies and the deets on what we had for breks.

Hank was watching us, slowing putting his food to his mouth (and missing half of it — for hell’s sake, he’s 10, when is he going to learn to eat without half the food falling onto his shirt?), watching us back and forth like the world’s slowest ping-pong match. He finally cleared his throat and said, “uh, why are you two talking like teenagers?”

I don’t know, kid. It’s like a virus. A ridic, awk, presh, gorg, cray-cray, and bee-tee-dubs adorbs virus. Whatevs. I need a vacay.